Soul Requiem
by Mokusan
Summary: They told him that to bring anyone back from the dead was impossible. The impossible, however, had never stopped him before. Post-DH; SPOILERS!


**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter copyright J.K. Rowling.  
**Warning:** Contains major spoilers for _Deathly Hallows_.

_Our story begins shortly after the final defeat of Voldemort..._

Soul Requiem: Prologue

* * *

He was cold.

It was not just the wind that whipped his face and cast a flurry of goosebumps up his arms, exposed by the fresh tears and rips in his robes. It was not the darkening skies, with its pale moon and shimmering stars, nor was it the looming shadows of the surrounding trees as he crept deeper and deeper into the depths of the Forbidden Forest.

This was a cold that struck deeper, truer than any midnight breeze. It dug beneath his flesh, racing through his veins to strike his heart, fast and true. He could almost feel the shatter as his heart fell to a thousand pieces, hear the crunch beneath his foot as he turned each piece to a thousand more with every step. It was a cold unlike ever before; colder than his brother's betrayal, and colder still than all the deaths he'd ever faced.

He came to an abrupt stop and leaned forward. Shaking hands tightly clenched his knees as his lungs heaved with every gulp of air. A film of sweat matted his flaming hair to his brow. The forest was unusually silent, his desperate breaths the only sound. No creature dared to stir, the branches above and shrubs below void of any movement. The sudden stillness was eerie.

For a moment he wondered if someone would come looking for him; if, at any second, he'd hear the crashes of exhausted witches and wizards, his friends, blundering through the forest, calling his name. He wondered if they would miss him, and if they _did_ come looking, whether or not he would answer. The very thought left his mind, however, as he recalled exactly what he had left behind. No one would notice he was gone. There was a victory to celebrate, losses to mourn, and he was only one of thousands.

And it was so strange, he realized, to be alone. The word rang sour in his mind. _Alone_. They had always been together, even while apart, sharing a bond so strange and true that no mind, even rival to the likes of Dumbledore, could ever begin to understand. That bond, however, was gone. Severed. It left behind a terrible void, filled only by a great and harrowing cold. It spread like poison, enveloping not only the remains of a shattered bond, but his heart, his soul, leaving him empty and numb.

And with a sudden air of finality, George Weasley realized he would never be whole again.

He stood, slowly drawing himself to full height. Now that he had run to escape the madness – the cheering, the elation, and the sorrow – he was at a loss for what to do. It would be a long while until someone came searching for him and longer still until he was found. He had time to himself to mourn the loss of his brother (_alone_, he thought bitterly). How one was supposed to grieve the loss of his twin, however, he did not know.

George leaned against the nearest tree, slowly sliding to the ground, ignoring the rough bark as it bit his back through his robes. He stared ahead at the trees before him until his head tipped back against the trunk, seemingly of its own accord, and he was faced with the thick branches above. His eyes fluttered shut and to any onlooker it would appear he was asleep. An unwanted gasp escaped his lips and his eyes squeezed tight to stop a sudden onslaught of tears. It was no use, as a mighty ache swelled up behind his nose and tears pushed their way through his eyelashes, leaving salty trails that seemed to burn against his freckled cheeks. He heaved a sob, closely followed by several more, that left his body shaking.

"Fred," he moaned, silence his only answer. "_FRED!_"

The screamed bounced through the trees, fading as the seconds ticked by. Slowly, his shudders grew slow, at last ceasing altogether. George attempted to dry his eyes with his sleeve which, coated in a fine layer of grime, was of little help. As he glared at the ground, tired and frustrated, he found himself staring at a stone. It was nothing remarkable – small, hardly bigger than a stone set for a ring – yet he was drawn to it. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, as if he had stumbled on a great secret, as he slowly crawled forward, scooping the small rock and a bit of dirt up into his cupped hand.

George held the stone between his thumb and pointer finger, dumping the dirt back to the ground before cupping the stone in his palm again. He rubbed it idly with his thumb, staring at its smooth, polished surface, its only blemish a jagged crack that ran down one side and a hauntingly familiar symbol etched on the other. It had fallen from a ring, he decided, a ring that could have belonged to anyone. He turned the stone in his hand, once, twice, three times.

The fog that had slowly begun to creep between the trees seemed to rush together before his very eyes. It twisted and churned, slowly taking shape until it resembled a ghost. At first George could not see its face, but as it turned to him, he let out a wide gasp. His eyes flew wide and his heart skipped several beats. It was impossible, he knew, and yet there it was, plain as day.

"_Fred_," he whispered, slowly reaching out to touch his brother whom, despite being quite dead, was standing right before him, ghostly and pale.

The stone fell from his hand and his brother vanished.


End file.
